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by Charlotte88
Summary: For Audrey. One-shot. Post-fifteen. "How could you have expected this to be any more than it already is?"


_For Audrey. May your birthday be filled with loveliness._

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_Come on skinny love, just last the year._

"Harry ... Harry, stop."

The words have barely left your swollen lips before you regret saying them. But you can't keep pretending anymore.

It's too painful.

He does stop, his hands either side of your arms, palms pressed to the mattress. His dark hair is sticking up at odd angles, his green eyes are full of concern, and a muscle twitches in his prominent jaw.

"What is it?" he asks breathlessly.

"We have to stop this," you murmur, your vision blurring. "Please."

He looks confused and you can hardly blame him, but you _can't_ keep doing this anymore.

Three months ago it had first happened. It had been the loneliness that caused it. The heartache. The unbearable feeling that nothing will ever quite be the same again. You were watching Leo fall apart, Janet disappear, doing post-mortems on babies and grieving for your father.

Together you had tumbled into his bed, desperate, lonely, telling yourselves over and over that it was the alcohol, that is was a one-off thing.

Except the next night had been the same, and the night after that, and the night after that, until you lost track of how many nights it had been and you began to crave his presence, his strong body pressed against yours, his warmth enveloping you in a blanket of security.

It was somewhere between friends with benefits and a sordid love affair, it was difficult to tell which.

You never had sleepovers. Ever.

One of you was always gone before dawn even has a chance to break, slinking back to your own apartments, the darkness hiding the knowing looks on your faces.

For three months it had continued, nearly every night, or at least two or three times a week. Neither of you spoke of it the following day. Leo got better, returned to his usual self - and knew nothing. And you acted as if there _was _nothing to know. You still dated men, Harry still picked up women. Nothing changed.

Except, everything changed.

And tonight ... tonight means something.

You can smell perfume on the pillow beneath you. Perfume that isn't your own. Perfume that belongs to a woman called Grace, the 25-year-old redhead he took home with him from the bar last night. You had watched him leave with her, hand-in-hand.

Then you had gone home and cried yourself to sleep.

And now you can smell her perfume and it's nauseating and you want nothing more than the rip the pillows from the bed.

He is looking at you now, puzzled and unsure of what he's done wrong, and it's so endearing that you nearly tell him to forget you said anything. But you have to stop.

"Why are we doing this?" you ask, in a weary sort of voice.

He's silent for a moment, before he murmurs, "Nikki..."

"See! You can't even tell me why! This has to _stop_, Harry."

You place your hands gently on his bare chest, but even you aren't sure whether you're bringing him closer or pushing him away.

"Why?" he mutters. "There has to be a reason why." His long sigh tickles the stray hairs on your cheek.

"How do you not get it, Harry?" you ask exasperatedly, shaking your head sadly. "I thought that maybe you... But you aren't, you're still... So I can't. Not anymore."

You gaze at him beseechingly, imploring him to understand what you can't seem to utter aloud, but he merely looks dumbfounded.

"Um, if you're expecting an answer then you're going to have to start finishing your sentences," he says with a wonky smile, dropping a quick kiss to your lips.

But you don't know how to tell him. He's going to think you're an idiot, that you should have known what you were getting into the first time you slept together, all those months ago. And, on some level, you did know. Nothing has ever been easy with the pair of you; any attempt at something more has always been fraught with complications. You knew what he was like: a player, a commitment-phobe. He's already making jokes. How could you have expected this to be any more than it already is?

And that thought crushes you. Because a little part of you had been hopeful, clinging on to an ideal that you're still terrified to voice. But of course, you've been deluded, a fool. You allowed yourself that tiny flicker of vulnerability, only for it to splinter and crack every fibre of your being, like a chip in a pane of glass.

His body suddenly feels too heavy above you, the sheets too thick, the air too stifling. You can't breathe; it's as if some invisible weight is pressing down on your chest. The sheen of sweat on your burning forehead has nothing to do with the activity of five minutes ago; instead you feel feverish and queasy. Fingers find his shoulders and this time there's no hesitation in pushing him away, far far away from you.

You fling back the covers and fly out of bed, grabbing the nearest item of clothing and shrugging it on to cover your bare skin, as you walk quickly into the lounge. Unfortunately the nearest item of clothing to hand happened to be the shirt he was wearing last night, which now has two buttons missing due to your earlier hungry impatience, and you growl frustratedly.

You'll never be free from him.

(You ignore the possibility that you picked it up on purpose).

You can feel him at your fingertips as they brush over the cotton shirt. Your eyelids flutter closed and you can taste his kisses, hear him whisper your name over and over.

And that smell, of aftershave and fabric conditioner and shampoo, which usually gives you a sense of security and safety and comfort, suddenly makes your eyes sting and your throat constrict.

You walk over to the window, resting your forehead on the cool glass, watching the dark city around you.

"Nikki?"

You ignore him, pretend like you didn't hear him, until he comes and stands by your side so that ignoring him is no longer viable. But still, you don't have to look at him.

"Please tell me what I've done," he whispers, and there's a pain and anguish in his voice that is unfamiliar and causes an inexplicable knot in your stomach. You glance at him briefly. He's wearing boxers and a t-shirt now, his hair tousled and his face crumpled.

A furious debate wages inside of you. You could pretend that you're being stupid, that it's nothing, and go back to how you were ten minutes ago; or you can tell him the truth and risk losing him completely.

Eventually you murmur, "I was jealous of Grace last night."

This angers him. You wish you'd never looked up when you catch the furious glint in his eyes. "And that's why you're mad at me? That is completely unfair! You think I don't feel that way when I see you with Martin? But you don't catch me throwing a tantrum!"

You'd like to rebuke that that's not fair either, slap him for his condescension, make him understand. But instead you tell him, "I broke up with Martin a week ago."

That shocks him. When you'd first met Martin, two months ago, you had promised that you would stop sleeping with Harry and actually give a relationship a go. And you had, for a while. Well, for a week. But before you knew it you were cheating on him, blowing off his date ideas to spend the night with Harry. After seven weeks of this the guilt had clawed at your insides, ripping them to shreds. And so you'd ended things.

"But I thought you liked him?" he frowns down at you.

You laugh humourlessly, bitterly. "Yes, I liked him so much I couldn't stop screwing my best friend."

He flinches at your words, but you don't apologise. It's his fault you're in this mess.

"I was with Martin," you continue, softer this time, "and he was kissing me and taking me on nice dates and asking about my day - and I _so wanted_ to fall in love with him, to make it work. But I couldn't. Because all I could ever think about, was you. And I _hate_ you for it, Harry. I really do."

He looks sad now, not angry. Defeated. "Well then I guess we have a problem, don't we?" he mutters, placing his palm on the window beside you, leaning against it, as if all the energy has been snatched away from him.

But you can't bear the idea that everything between you might just disintegrate into nothing. Your bottom lip trembles and your head gives the tiniest of shakes – as if you're trying to convince yourself that it isn't true. And so you step closer to him, your arms slowly coiling around his waist, your cheek coming to rest on his chest. And it strikes you how tall he is when you're not wearing your heels, how solid he is and how safe you feel when you're with him.

And slowly, you feel his arms wrap around you, too. His presses a kiss to the top of your head, tucking a stray curl behind your ear.

"We have to stop, don't we?" he whispers into your hair, and finally, _finally_, he really understands.

You nod against his t-shirt, not relinquishing your grip on him. You stay like that for a while.

But then you feel him tense slightly, his head lift, his fingers stop the repetitive circular motion they'd been tracing on your back.

"We have to stop the friends with benefits thing," he says slowly, as if he's still thinking this through. "But that's not what either of us wants, anyway."

What? Your own body stiffens. That flicker of hope reignites.

You look up at him, your eyes connecting with his warily. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying, come back to bed," he says, and a shadow of a smile catches on his lips. "And then in the morning I'll make you breakfast and some strong coffee, and we'll talk about us."

You never have sleepovers. Ever.

Until now.

But you're scared, irrationally so maybe, but scared all the same. There's a reason it's taken three months to reach this point. Every single person in your life has deserted you, abandoned you, left you in pieces. And if he were to do the same, it's quite possible that the damage would be irreparable.

As if he knows exactly what you're thinking, he says, "I'm not going anywhere, Nikki. Look, we owe it to ourselves to give this a try, don't we?"

And you consider the possibility that he's right. In fact, you know he is. Something that's only affirmed when he kisses you, kisses you differently than before, with less urgency, less desperation. Like he knows he has the rest of his life to kiss you.

And maybe, just maybe, you'll let him.

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**This was nearly a lot more angsty than it already is, you know. I almost ended it when Harry realised that they had to stop. But then I decided that that wouldn't be a very good birthday present for Audrey, if there wasn't at least a little bit of a happy ending. And so it turned into this. **

**I hope you all like it. I did say at the end of 'Let It Be' that the fluff wouldn't be sticking around. I think I'm incapable of writing it, to be honest.**

**Let me know you think. :) **


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